my sweetest downfall
by Ace of Emeralds
Summary: Post-TGG. A few months after Molly finds out who Moriarty is, she also finds out that she's pregnant with his child. It forces her to have faith in people she never thought she could trust and to find strength in herself she never thought she possessed.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Sherlock and all its characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing.**

**A/N: This is the rewrite of my story 'Glass Heart.' It's more medicine and psychology heavy than it was last time around and with less shameless fluff. I hope it doesn't disappoint.**

**The new title is from Regina Spektor's song 'Samson.' If you haven't heard it, go listen to it, it's absolutely amazing.  
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**Enjoy and please review. **

Molly Hooper doesn't cry.

She hates the way that it makes her choke on her breath and shake like she's about to shatter into pieces, hates the way that it makes her eyes puffy and her nose red. Most of all, she hates the way that anyone can walk past and see how much you're hurting. She hates being made to trust people with her deepest feelings that she tries so hard to keep a secret.

So she presses them down, chokes on the tears in her throat and pushes the everyday hurts until she almost doesn't feel them anymore. In all their infinite wisdom, both of the men that she fell for probably knew that.

She didn't cry when Sherlock Holmes tore her self-confidence into pieces. She didn't cry when her Jim turned out to be _Moriarty_, a criminal mastermind.

But today, she slams her back against the wall and slides down to the floor until she's sitting on the cold, hard tiled floor. She hugs her knees to her chest and gasps in a desperate effort to get air into her lungs. She digs her nails into her legs and her hands clench and unclench around the white stick with the little pink plus sign.

When she has cried herself dry, she stands up and splashes cold water on her face then wipes it away on her sleeve. She leaves the bathroom, slipping the test deep into her pocket and taking a deep breath in. She walks through the hallways, smiling and inclining her head at all her colleagues as she passes them.

She doesn't let them see how her hand is trembling, still deep inside her pocket. She doesn't let them see how she bites the inside of her lip to keep from screaming.

Most of all, she doesn't let them see how much this scares her; this child growing inside her, one that's half _her._

Because it will be half _him _too. The man that she's been trying to forget. The man who she's been trying to run away from, though she still wakes up every morning with the taste of him on her lips, half-imagined and half-remembered.

She tries to hate him, she tries to be repulsed by the memories of his warm breath at her ear when he whispered to her, his laugh, the way he played with her cat, the way he picked her up like she weighed nothing, threw her on the couch and tickled her until she was breathless but still giggling in spite of it. She tries so hard to remember that he has killed people who did him no wrong, snuffed out lives like oil lamps. She knows that she couldn't have meant anything to him.

Molly can never quite bring herself to regret Jim Moriarty. His deception was her downfall, but it was the sweetest one that she had ever experienced.


	2. Chapter one

**Disclaimers from the prologue apply.**

**A/N: Molly runs into dear old Sherlock in this chapter. Yeah. That's going to be fun.**

Molly sat at her desk, filling out paperwork and trying to ignore the headache that she had forgotten to take an ibuprofen for. She was reflecting that, even when pursuing a career in pathology, arguably one of the most disturbing, gory professions in the world, one couldn't escape boredom, when Sherlock Holmes came bursting through her office door.

"I need to see Alice Auguste's body," he said, catching Molly off guard. She blinked in surprise and then suppressed a sigh when she saw who it was. Brilliant and gorgeous the man undoubtedly was, however, he was not the best person to be confronted with at the end of the day when you already have a headache and a pile of unfinished paperwork (also known as the promise of another, even worse headache.) She saw John Watson standing behind Sherlock, wearing his usual put-upon yet content expression. She shot him a quick, tight smile before turning to Sherlock.

"What did you say, Sherlock?" she asked, eyebrows pulling together in anticipation of the coming onslaught of sarcasm. Sherlock's eyebrows, on the other hand, raised to somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline. "Alice Auguste," he said, speaking slowly and enunciating each word. "I need to see her body."

Molly rubbed her temples and stared at her desk. On the one hand, Sherlock was standing in front of her, looking like an Olympian god. On the other, she really did not want to have to explain to her supervisor, once again, why an unauthorized "detective" was flogging the cadavers with a riding crop. She shook her head and said, "Sorry, Sherlock, you're going to have to get proper clearance or else I really can't let you in. I've already gotten an official reprimand for letting in unauthorized persons."

Sherlock looked disgruntled for a moment before a sweet smile came over his face. "Molly," he said, in a low voice that was obviously intended to be seductive. He took several steps towards her until he was standing just behind her desk, looming over her and letting his eyes wander pointedly downward. "New blouse?" he said, one side of his mouth quirking up into an absurdly attractive half-smile.

Molly felt the blood rush to her cheeks and she looked down at her blouse, a smile already beginning to form on her lips. Then she stopped and looked again, taking time to actually register what it was that Sherlock was complimenting. It was the same blouse she'd been wearing the last two times he came in. She took a deep, slow breath in, looked up at him and said, "No, actually. I've had it since college. Now, there's a door just behind you, if you'd care to use it. I'm sure you can find your way out of St. Bart's without my help."

She looked back down at the form in front of her and pointedly began to write, ignoring Sherlock as he stood in front of her with a comical look of shock on his face. "May I ask what brought about this drastic change of policy?" he said, sounding almost huffy. Molly would've laughed if she hadn't been so annoyed.

"Look, I'm very tired," she said, letting her exasperation seep into her voice. "I've got a horrible headache and a lot of work and - and I'm just really fed up with you today!" Sherlock blinked. Then he looked her up and down, eyes darting from place to place and lingering unabashedly in places that they really shouldn't be.

"Oh, Molly, Molly," he said, almost smirking, "I think you've a better reason than that."

"Sherlock," John said warningly, stepping out of the doorway and into the office, closing the door behind him. Molly looked at him, nervously. She'd almost forgotten that he was there. Sherlock took a deep breath in and she could tell that he was about to rattle off a string of deductions. She crossed her arms across her chest and pursed her lips as she waited for the show to begin.

"You're almost as addicted to caffeine as I am myself, but looking around your office, I see that the customary empty coffee cups have been replaced with herbal teas. Your breasts are substantially larger, one could even say swollen, and your shoes appear to have gone up two sizes, so you're retaining water. As far as I know, you have never had any inclination towards headaches yet you're complaining of an rather severe one at the moment. There are bags under your eyes that you have not attempted to cover with makeup, but you've never displayed any symptoms of insomnia before, so, losing sleep which could be attributed to more frequent urination, back or head aches and nausea."

Molly closed her eyes and winced, feeling her face grow hot once more. Of course he was right, why had she been expecting anything different?

"You, Molly Hooper," he said, triumphantly, "are pregnant."

John's mouth dropped open slightly and Molly almost laughed; of course he would be surprised that sweet mousy Molly Hooper had gotten herself impregnated.

"Well done, Sherlock," she said, trying to conceal her discomfort. "You've stated the obvious. What do you want, a medal?" John stepped forward once more and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as if to stop him from going any further. He really should have known better.

"Who's the father then?" he asked harshly, looking down at her with an expression that managed to be simultaneously detached and fascinated. She leaned back in her chair and glared up at him, trying and failing to look as though she didn't care about what he had just tossed out into the open so casually. "You tell me, Sherlock. I'm sure the world's only consulting detective will be able to tell me who the father of my child is."

John looked appalled. "You mean you don't know?" She shook her head but Sherlock was already answering for her. "Of course she knows. Look at her, does she look like she sleeps with a lot of men?" Molly opened her mouth to retort but could think of nothing to say and closed it again.

"You seem to be exhibiting symptoms that show up within about eight weeks but you're not showing noticeably yet..." Sherlock mused, eyes fixed on Molly's stomach. "So this baby would have had to be conceived within the last two and a half months." A look of revulsion passed quickly over his features as the light of realization dawned.

"Oh. _Oh_," he said. "Jim from IT. You're... you're carrying Moriarty's baby."

Molly stared down at her desk once more, feeling tears starting to prick at the backs of her eyes. "Yeah," she said, giving up trying to sound forceful, "I am. And I really need to get home and get some sleep because I sure as hell won't get any tonight. So, now that you've thoroughly humiliated me, do you mind leaving so that I can lock up?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the doorway before walking back over and placing a hand on Molly's shoulder. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking her straight in the face with concern. She gave a slight nod. She knew that he could tell she was lying and she also knew that he wouldn't say another word. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and walked out of her office, nearly dragging Sherlock with him.

Molly stood up, using her desk for support and leaned on it for a few minutes, breathing deeply in and out until the knot in her chest subsided slightly. She pulled on a raincoat and filled her briefcase with the papers she hadn't quite managed to finish before leaving to walk to the tube station down the street.

When she got back to her apartment building, she took the elevator up to her flat and let herself in. She made a cup of tea, popped in a movie and sat down on her couch. Toby came and jumped up on her lap and she petted his head absently as she watched Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant waltz to bring in the New Year.

She thought about romance then, about a man who had commented on her blog and taken her out for coffee and another who had used her too many times to count. She wondered how it was possible that the cruelest man she knew had almost been killed by the kindest and finally, fell asleep on her couch.


	3. Chapter two

**Disclaimers from chapter one apply. **

**A/N: So... I know nothing about the geography of London, being a New Yorker myself. Apologies for anything I've gotten wrong. (if I have made any mistakes, please let me know in a review or private message)**

Molly walked out of her apartment building and into the gloomy April afternoon. The ever-present rain began to pepper her hair and her sweater and she looked up in annoyance at the sky. "Really?" she muttered under her breath as if some nameless deity would hear her and bring to rain to a sudden halt. She hugged her arms closer to her chest and quickened her pace as the rain continued to patter against the sidewalk.

She had been walking for only a few minutes when a light grey car pulled up beside her. A familiar face leaned out of the window, giving her a friendly smile. "Can I give you a ride anywhere, Miss Hooper?" asked Inspector Lestrade. She gave a relieved smile in return and got into the passenger side. "_Thank_ you," she said, rubbing her hands together in an effort to return some warmth to them.

"Where are you headed?" Lestrade asked, looking over at her questioningly. "Uh, could you just take me to the nearest tube station?" she said, twisting her hands awkwardly in her lap.

"And where are you taking the tube?"

"My brother's flat in Fulham," she said, reluctantly, "but you don't have to take me that far." Lestrade shook his head and said, "I've not got work for another couple of hours. I'd be happy to take you."

Molly smiled shyly at him. He grinned in reply before turning his eyes back to the road. They spent the most of the ride discussing work. Their fields of employ often threw them together, though it was always in a professional capacity.

The case they were both working on at the moment was another serial murderer with an extremely unusual method. He or she appeared to be playing to the victims' weaknesses. If the potential victim was a diabetic, they would be deprived of insulin, if they were allergic to penicillin the tablets would be forced down their throats. As causes of death go, wasn't exactly the best Molly had ever heard of; she had to admit that she'd shuddered once or twice during the autopsies.

"Do you think the killer will be caught within the week?" she asked, once Lestrade had filled her in on the details of the investigation that she hadn't already been apprised of. Lestrade shrugged and Molly was surprised to note that he looked slightly sheepish. "It would be solved within the day if Sherlock would agree to come in," he sighed, a hand going automatically to his temple as he mentioned the consulting detective.

Molly frowned slightly. "Why wouldn't he want to come in? As awful as the murders are, it's the kind of case that would interest him." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no, I've even phoned John and asked him to get Sherlock down to one of the crime scenes but he just won't budge. He says he's working on another problem."

Her eyes widened slightly. Surely he wasn't... no, that would be ridiculous. He'd already found out everything there was to know about her pregnancy. That couldn't have anything to do with this. Still, she felt slightly uneasy.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked and she realized that she'd been staring blankly over his shoulder for the last minute or so. She blinked and focused on his suddenly worried face. "Sorry," she said with a nervous half-smile, "I didn't get very much sleep last night."

Lestrade looked sympathetic. "I know how you feel," he said. "I've been up half the night trying to get these conflicting accounts on speaking terms with each other."

She gave a tight sort of nod and turned to stare out of the window. For the remainder of the ride, Lestrade attempted to make small talk and she answered absently but they soon lapsed into silence. She told him where to stop and let her out and thanked him for giving her a ride. He smiled at her and said that it was his pleasure, that it wasn't every day he had a pretty woman in his car. She blushed slightly and waved as he and drove away.

oooOOOooo

Her brother smiled as he opened the door and pulled her into a tight hug. "Hey, big sister," he said into her shoulder. Molly smiled and rubbed his shoulders. "Hello, Alex."

She spent a pleasant afternoon with her brother, going through all the motions. She laughed at the antics that he and his college friends had been up to (mostly being appallingly bad at chatting up women), and he asked her about her work at St. Bart's. She managed to wave off most of his inquiries about the people she knew at work ("You spend all day cutting up dead bodies with people and you don't exactly want to meet them for a burger.")

They ordered Mexican food and watched truly terrible crime shows until it was dark outside. Molly checked her watch and groaned when she saw that it was nearly eleven. "I'd really better be getting home," she said, stretching until her joints popped, "I'm tired as hell, Alex. Catch you in a few days, okay?" He nodded, still staring in disbelief at the characters shouting woodenly at each other on the screen. She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "Bye, hon."

She rode the tube back to her apartment, thinking longingly of the quiet, comfortable interior of Lestrade's car as she was jostled and pushed. Molly walked back to her apartment building, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that the rain had let up, and up to her flat. She turned on the lights and went to check her email. Two emails from a colleague, asking her if she could oversee several autopsies tomorrow. Lovely. She sighed and typed a quick positive reply.

She realized that she hadn't checked her phone messages and looked at the answering machine. 2 new messages. The first was a hang-up which she deleted, sighing slightly in annoyance. She skipped to the second message.

_"Well, hello there, sexy," _said a cracked sing-song voice. Molly's eyes widened, one hand going to the counter to hold herself steady.

_"How have you been getting on, Molly? I was so concerned to hear that you've been working in your condition. It must be very hard for you now, I'm terribly sorry. So, to brighten up your day, I'm going to offer you a choice. First off, you can call the police like a good little girl and have them search your flat just to make sure that I haven't left anything dangerous lying around. You know, psychopathic criminal mastermind and all that jazz. Your other option is to leave your building, take a left and walk down to the corner of your street. There, you'll wait for a navy car with tinted windows __to pull up and you'll get in. I can use your help, Molly, to burn Sherlock Holmes alive. Doesn't he deserve it, after all that he's done to you? Don't you want him to treat you as though your worthy of the few minutes he spends on you? I could make him respect you, fear you, the way he's afraid of me. Or I could be lying. Your choice."_

There was a click and Molly was alone in her kitchen, letting out a breath that she hadn't even noticed she'd been holding and fighting not to scream, loud and long. She took several deep breaths in and ignored the tight, hot prickling at the back of her eyes.

She grabbed at her phone and dialed a number that she'd honestly thought she would never have the courage to use.

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Click. _

"Hello?" said a deep, smooth, arrogant voice.

Molly clutched the phone to her ear. "Sherlock? It's Molly. Please... I need your help."


	4. Chapter three

**Disclaimers from chapter one apply.**

**A/N: Once again, any mistakes are entirely my fault, as I'm not a medical doctor and know nothing about traumatic shock. But, I will say that I did my best to be accurate. I'm sort of kind of proud of this chapter... I hope you enjoy it.**

Sherlock burst through her door without knocking, John following him only a step behind. Molly wondered briefly if he was actually opposed to asking permission to enter someone else's rooms or if he'd just gotten too used to crime scene etiquette. He strode over to her and grabbed her shoulders. "What happened?" he demanded, seeming impatient rather than concerned.

She pointed dumbly at the phone. "Moriarty," she said, almost forcing the words out. "Listen..."

He raised his eyebrows slightly but played the message. His eyebrows made the slow trek down his forehead as he listened. By the end of the message, he was frowning thunderously. He looked sharply at Molly. "Have you called the police?" She shook her head and stuttered, "I - I was... I was just..."

John's eyes widened and he grabbed Molly's shoulders and turned her to him. He cursed under his breath and turned back to his comrade in arms. "Sherlock, she's in shock." Sherlock gave Molly a cursory glance and then nodded in agreement. Molly looked down at her hands and was surprised to discover that she was trembling and covered in a light sheen of sweat.

Sherlock waved a hand. "Lie her down, elevate her feet, cover her with blankets. I'll call Lestrade." John shook his head. "Sherlock," he said, doubtfully, "I think she's about to faint. I won't be able to support her." His dark-haired colleague gave a sigh of annoyance and walked over to Molly. He looked her over, nodded to himself and swiftly knelt down and knocked her knees out from underneath her. She gave a tiny gasp and would have protested but she suddenly found herself held snugly up against his chest in a honeymoon-style carry. The world blurred a bit around the edges and she took shallow breaths, trying to stay conscious.

She heard John's voice say, "It's alright, Molly. You're going to be fine."

Somehow, she believed him.

ooOOoo

The next thing that Molly was aware of was an overwhelming feeling of warmth. She tossed her arm across herself and encountered an obstacle. She jerked her eyes open in alarm and looked around. She was lying in a bed, covered in several heavy comforters. The walls were painted grey and almost all the furniture was bare and obviously unused. She blinked once or twice but it didn't make anything clearer.

Molly sat up and tried to ignore the swimming in her head. She got out of the bed slowly and walked out into a hallway and looked around. Once she was certain that it was completely unfamiliar, she walked down the hall and into a living room filled with dusty sunlight.

"Hello, sleeping beauty," a familiar voice said. She turned around to see John Watson looking up at her and smiled in relief. "Oh, it's you, John," she said, putting a hand to her head. "This is your flat?"

"And mine," said a deep, honey-sweet baritone. Molly was overwhelmed with the mental image of a jaguar caught in a cello and the desire to roll her eyes. There was only one thing that could mean. "Hello, Sherlock," she said, without turning around.

"Hello, Molly." She looked around and saw him sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blue dressing gown and radiating self-importance.

"I hate to ask an obvious question," she said, "but what am I doing in your flat? I remember coming home from my brother's place but... after that, my memories are sort of, blurred over. What happened?"

"Moriarty left you a message on your answering machine. You went into shock... you were in a very bad way and I'm sure the baby didn't help," John said, looking at her sympathetically. "We took you here while the police searched your flat. I don't think it's safe for you there anymore... they'll want to question you as well. And you should see a doctor." Molly raised her eyebrows at him. "Other than me, of course," he said with a slight grin.

She nodded and sat down. "What am I going to do if it's not safe at my flat?" she asked, eyebrows furrowing. Sherlock looked at her as though she was shockingly simple. "You're going to stay here," he said bluntly and began to contemplate something on the mantelpiece with terrifying intensity. Molly glanced over. It was a skull. Of course.

"Why, exactly, am I staying here? Moriarty's bound to be just as much of a problem here. Uh, where is here, by the way?" "221B Baker Street," John supplied helpfully.

"My brother has the British government under his thumb. He also has us under 24/7 surveillance and protection, not that we've noticed. You'll be much safer here than you would be under any kind of police protection," Sherlock told her. Molly nodded, unsurprised. She hadn't known that Sherlock had an older brother but it was not exactly a shocker that he would be engaged in a career nearly as intimidating as Sherlock's, if not quite so unconventional.

"How long am I going to be staying? A few weeks?" she asked. John looked at Sherlock with an uncomfortable look on his face that made her very nervous. Sherlock shrugged and said, "You should really remain here for the remainder of your pregnancy. I'm right in thinking that that's the main reason for Moriarty's interest in you?"

Molly blinked. She thought over the last few seconds of conversation and concluded that yes, Sherlock Holmes had, essentially, just asked her (told her) to move in.

"I suppose so," she said, taking deep breaths in an effort not to hyperventilate.

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and a pregnant Molly Hooper staying in the same flat? Welcome to the living, breathing definition of hell in a handbasket.

ooOOoo

"Well, it looks like you're just fine, Miss Hooper," the young doctor said, staring down at his clipboard. "Your pregnancy's coming along nicely, no complications. Any problems that you've noticed?"

Molly nodded. "Um, headaches. I'm getting them all the time now. Is there anything I can do to alleviate the pain?"

He nodded. "You shouldn't take aspirin or ibuprofen but acetaminophen would work if your headaches are really severe. I would recommend applying heating pads or cold packs to your forehead and neck, depending on what works best for you. For a long term solution... many women have found that meditation and yoga help."

She smiled politely and said, "Thanks. Is that all?"

The doctor nodded and waved her out of the room with a, "Take care of yourself." She gave a brief grin at that. It was hard to take care of yourself when an insane criminal mastermind (and the father of your baby) was intent on using you as a spy.

She walked quickly out of the hospital, into a sky that was heavy with a coming rain. She laughed softly and pulled up the hood of her jacket.

"You know," said a low, polite voice from behind her, "we really have to stop meeting like this." She looked around to see Lestrade standing behind her, smiling sweetly and holding out an umbrella. Molly smiled back politely and took the proffered umbrella as the first drops of cold, fresh rain starting to dot her face. She opened up the umbrella and stood on her tiptoes to reach it over Lestrade's head.

He laughed kindly and took the umbrella, holding it over both their heads. She smiled sheepishly and said, "Thank you."

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes and then Lestrade said, "I'm sorry, Molly... I'm very sorry." She frowned and looked up at him. "Whatever for?" He looked at her searchingly.

"I had no idea that you were pregnant. I - I didn't even know that you and Moriarty were..." He waved his hand about vaguely, an uncomfortable look on his face.

She closed her eyes and held up a hand, motioning for him to stop. She had completely forgotten that Greg was bound to be investigating Moriarty and thus, the phone call that he made to her. She screwed up her face as tears began to prick at the back of her eyes.

"Please," she said, quietly, "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. Please, please leave me be." She stepped back and opened her eyes. "I can live," she said, laughing ever-so-slightly, "without an umbrella."

With that, she walked away into the rain that was now falling with all the strength and enthusiasm of a barrage of bullets. She was almost glad of it. It meant that nobody could see the tears that were sliding down her cheeks and falling onto her lips, with the salty-sweet taste of a memory best left unremembered.


End file.
